Page 113 of The Thing About My Prince

My back snaps into an arc and Oliver’s hand clamps over my mouth. I must have cried out, but I can’t hear myself over the cymbals that have joined the bells and are now crashing in my brain. Crashing and smashing as he pumps harder under me, reaching his climax and bursting into me as I begin the gradual descent from mine.

“Fuck, Lexi.” The words spill from his lips on his final release inside me.

When his pace slows, I fall forward, resting my head on his shoulder, sated, fulfilled, every iota of tension wrung out of me.

And we rock in perfect time, the rhythm slowing, our hearts beating against each other on a chair in the back room of a church, outside of which the royal family is currently having wedding photos taken.

“Will we go to hell for this?” I raise my head to look down at him.

He pushes my hair off my face, and even in the darkness, Ican make out his wry smile. “I’m pretty certain I was put on that list long ago.”

There’s a sound outside the door that makes both of us freeze.

“Was that a cough?” I whisper.

“I thought that too,” he says. “We should probably go.”

I lift myself off him and instantly feel the emptiest I’ve ever felt in my life. This might not have been the most romantic spot or the longest, slowest, most caring sex we’ve had, but it feels like something’s different, something’s shifted.

But there’s no time to think about that while I fumble on the floor for my bag.

Fuck, my panties aren’t in it.

My heart races again, but this time with panic. I can’t leave my underwear in here for someone to find. Groping around on the floor, I finally brush some fabric under the dresser.

“Oh, thank, fu—argh.” The underside of the dresser is hard against the top of my head.

“You okay?” Oliver asks.

“Yes. Thought I’d lost my underwear.” I hop around, trying to get back into them, and have to lean on the dresser for support.

“Still have that tissue?” Oliver asks when I finally hitch my panties up and smooth down my dress.

“Yes.” I pull the pink lipstick-stained Kleenex from my bag.

“How appropriate.” He raises his eyebrows as he places the condom into it, wraps it tight, and drops it into his sporran.

He moves toward the door, but I catch his elbow before he can open it.

“Hold on.” I straighten his purple thistle and white rose boutonniere. “Perfect.”

“Yup.” He drops a quick light kiss on my lips. “No one will ever know.”

Then he pulls the door open.

And every drop of hot blood falls from my body at the sight of Giles facing us.

How long has he been there? Did he hear us? And what the fuck does he want?

“Oh, hello, Giles,” Oliver says, as relaxed as if he’d casually bumped into him in the grocery store.

Oliver takes my hand and moves to lead me through the doorway, right past his royal nemesis.

But Giles steps to the side to block his path.

“What the fuck, Giles?” Oliver says. “I have to check if I’m needed for any more pictures.”

“We need to talk,” Giles says with the tone of a private investigator in a black-and-white movie.